


let it burn

by katalicz



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Character Study, Forgive Me, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, War, i wrote this 5 years ago and decided to post it across from ff.net, set during the bombing of Guernica
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 19:54:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16750555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katalicz/pseuds/katalicz
Summary: When Italy Romano set foot in Spain, he quickly realised that something was very, very wrong.





	let it burn

**Author's Note:**

> So this was written about 5/6 years ago when I was studying history, and I recently remembered about it and thought I might as well post it here. It was supposed to have another part but I seriously doubt that'll happen since I haven't been part of the Hetalia fandom in a very long time - but I do kinda like how this fic came out and since it can be read as a single chapter, yolo. Have a fic idk have fun.

_April 26 th, 1937  
10.30_

The moment that Italy Romano set foot in the country of Spain, he knew something was very, very wrong.

Admittedly, things hadn’t been right for over 23 years. The memory of them caused the frown on Romano’s face to deepen, and his pace increased as he marched down the worn road towards the Spaniards’ northern Basque region.

The journey to Spain had taken 4 days, and each one he spent trekking through France had been _terrible_. The Italian could have sworn he felt France’s breath down his neck for the entire journey, but the Frenchman was still not in a fit state to move faster than a jog, let alone chase the Italian with his usual vigour.

But he was in Spain now. He knew Spain like the back of his hand (he had grown up there, after all); he held a connection to the country and its representative that was almost as strong as the one he felt with his own (half) nation and its people.

So the cold shiver that shot down his spine the moment he stepped over the border worried him. Of course, Spain had been at war with himself for several months now, but in the times he had visited before, to bring in new Italian troops to help _his_ Spain, he had felt nothing as bad as _that_.

He wasn’t meant to be there in the first place. Hell, Mussolini would probably slaughter him for going (not that it would do much good, of course). Both he and Veneziano had been banned from leaving the country unless it was for meetings, and even then the dictator kept them on as short a leash as possible. The though made him growl under his breath. He knew why Mussolini wanted them to be kept like that, even if Veneziano didn’t, because he was planning to eventually do exactly what the dictator feared.

At first, Mussolini’s favouritism of his brother had been horrible. Romano's fingernails dug into his palm with the usual anger that overwhelmed him when _weak little Feli_ was put higher than himself, but forced himself to relax for what felt like the hundredth time that day. He didn’t _want_ to be favoured, he wanted them to be treated equally – although after saying that once in front of Mussolini and Germany’s boss, he wasn’t about to do the same again anytime soon. The shouts of ‘ _communist_!’ and the stinging of a hand whipping across his cheek sat far too close to the front of his mind for that.

As time went on, however, he felt a niggling sense of relief that his brother _was_ favoured and babied by the generals. He didn’t _want_ to be controlled in the slightest - and besides, Veneziano had an uncanny way of worming secrets out of people, no matter who they were. It was better for him to be close to those in charge, and Romano was willing to forgive him for absorbing everyone’s attention in return for the information he received. In this instance, it was the plans for Spain.

Not that he actually knew what they were.  Veneziano was even vaguer than usual, and Romano had left after hearing _‘Spain’s going to be in trouble, fratello!’,_ only catching a few words after that to tell him where to go.

_‘Guernica. But not Guernica, near Guernica. You’ll know when you get there, I think? Maybe?’_

Romano sighed and dragged a palm across his forehead. He could sense he was _somewhere_ in Basque, but he had only been to the region once or twice. Should he follow the road, or head to that clump of misshapen blocks that could be buildings?

Shaking his head in annoyance, he took one look at the hopefully inhabited blocks, before marching towards them.

..............

_11.00_

Romano wanted to cry. He had been wrong, and wasted another half hour that could have been used for much better things, such as finding Spain

The buildings – for that is the only thing they could have been – were burnt to the ground, some with skeletal pillars emerging from them like the masts of a wrecked ship. There was a faint smell of smoke, and Romano felt his heart squeeze as he began to walk, half hoping to find a survivor.

Holes from explosions lined the ground; Romano stepped over each one, never looking down for the fear that something would be inside it. Faint memories of mud filled shell holes, the broken bodies lying within them and the smell of both smoke and blood crossed his mind, but he pushed them back, willing himself forwards. It wouldn’t do to be caught up in the past, with another war looming on the horizon.

Unless the Republicans had received more weapons from the Soviets, they had no mass amount of bombs that Romano knew of, nothing that could cause this much damage, and the Italian nation used the fact to steady himself as he walked.

It was probably a rebel victory. The rebels represented Spain more closely than the Republicans. He needed the rebels to win, and _fast_ , before the war broke the Spanish nation the way Russia's civil war had broken him.

He finished his lap of the burnt out village, slightly relieved that there had been nobody there. So, with a heavy heart and _completely_ dry eyes, he continued on his way.

................

_16.00_

5 hours later saw Romano sat in a small cafe in the valley town of Errenteria, sipping at a coffee and listening to the curvy waitress as she babbled on to another customer. From what the Italian could understand, the traditional market day had been cancelled, with troops blocking all entry to the northern town of Guernica. Romano felt his stomach clench at the name, and tuned out her voice. Troops didn’t mean anything; they were probably just demonstrating their strength – or simply holding a strike, as he had come across many times in his trek across France.

Sighing lightly, he turned to look out of the window. With the smiling faces of people walking about outside and the vibrant colours of the town, it was hard to believe there was a war going on.

He was pulled from his thoughts by a loud shriek; he leapt up, the coffee spilling onto the wooden table, and ran to the door. He growled under his breath as the lights flickered, and pushed the door open.

To his surprise, the street was empty of both soldiers and rebels, and instead filled with a loud whirring he had only ever heard once.

Aeroplanes.

_What would they be doing here?_

The Spanish _certainly_ had nothing of the sort, else the Republicans would have used them already and this would already be over, and Romano doubted that Russia would just donate some of his. A wave of relief ran through him for the first time that day, because that meant that the rebels would be flying the planes, most likely brought over from either Italy or Germany, and the rebels were on Spain’s side. Spain _always_ knew what he was doing when it came to a fight.

The relief didn’t last long. A German plane, complete with _Balkenkreuz,_ flew overhead, and from what Romano had overheard from the ‘Axis’ meetings (of course, Veneziano had been allowed in. Romano had not, and had taken the time to spit in the leaders coffees), they were only brought out on a _‘special occasion’._

He also knew that the last time they had been seen was at the bombings in Madrid.

As the plane grew smaller, there was a distant bang, and the muffled sound of something collapsing. Another bang rang out, this one larger and accompanied by a flash of light.

It didn’t take long for Romano to figure out what was going on.

_Bombs._

_They're bombing the civilians._

With a shout, Romano hurtled himself down the street, following the plane and ignoring the stares of the people, who presumably hadn’t caught on yet.

_Didn’t that woman say they stopped people going into Guernica? What if they had a reason for it?_

He cursed under his breath again and forced himself to run quicker. The houses were beginning to thin out now; he could see the plane circling on the ridge but he couldn’t see the town...

He had never looked at it when he first arrived and wanted to _slap_ himself. Had the town been torn down that fast, or was it simply that you couldn’t see Guernica from here anyway? Romano didn’t stop to find out.

There were far few houses now – he _must_ be near the edge – but the road ahead was still as long as it had been before, and Romano was beginning to tire. Skipping Germany’s training sessions had certainly paid off – he couldn’t breathe, his muscles were aching from travelling so far in the past few days, and even being a nation, it was taking its toll at the worst time possible.

Romano hadn’t gone much further when he was forced to stop, slightly light headed and gasping for breath. The few people that stood in the street were watching him, and the only thing stopping the Italian from shouting and making an even bigger scene was that Spain was in _big_ trouble and he could _feel_ the other nation’s pain in a way he hadn’t since the 18th century. It spread through him like a wildfire, settling on his chest and hurting, like it was one of his own towns being targeted. He resisted the urge to call Veneziano to check that _that_ wasn’t happening, but of _course_ it wasn’t – with Europe on the brink of war yet _again_ , no one would dare bombing Italy now, he was safe, but he _couldn’t breathe_. Nobody other than Germany was strong enough, and despite all of the hate Romano held for the blond nation, he could trust that the German would stick to his word about their current alliance.

There was another bang that echoed across the countryside but Romano barely heard it. His mind was on overdrive, his limbs shaking from exertion and for once, he resented the fact that he had been so _lazy_ regarding fitness.

He took a step forwards tentatively, as though testing that his legs could still support his own body weight before breaking into a slow jog. Within ten paces, his lungs were burning again and his breaths rattling through his chest. It took all the strength that the Italian had to just _not pass out, he couldn’t pass out now, Spain needed him,_ but the exhaustion finally caught up and he fell to his knees, barely registering the sting as they scraped the ground.

Romano whimpered as another plane flew overhead, and his eyes began to fill with tears.

Because he _needed_ to carry on – how could he live with himself if he didn’t? – the town was so close, it was less than four kilometres; the distance was _nothing_ compared to what he had covered in the past week – _and_ _he couldn’t do it._

As the bangs began to get more frequent, Romano became aware of the people watching him nervously. A few had begun to approach him, but the Italian ignored them in favour of looking at the road ahead. There was a roadblock a few hundred meters from where he knelt, trucks and cars lined up across the road, and it was then that a plan began to form in him mind.

A hand on his shoulder snapped him out of his trance – he jerked around and resisted the urge to shout at the man peering down at him.

The Spaniard said something that Romano didn’t catch. He frowned in annoyance. Practising his Spanish had not been on his to do list, and he had _tried_ to avoid the locals – just not hard enough.

“ _Hablar lentamente, por favor,”_ he muttered - even if he was rusty on the language, at least he could _try_.

_“¿Estás bien? ¿Te has hecho daño?”_

“Estoy bien, pero necesito ayuda,”

The man frowned. _“¿Porque?”_

Romano bit back a snarl. _“Porque mi amigo está en Guernica, ¡y necesita ayuda ahora!”_

 _“Pero el pueblo está siendo bombardeada... es probablemente muerto,”_ the man looked sad for a moment.  _“Tambíen, estás fatigado-“_

“ _¡Necesito ayuda! Llévame al bloqueo, por favor,”_ Romano stressed, raising a hand to his forehead and looking back to where the planes were circling the town. _“Por favor,”_ he whispered, and the man sighed.

_“Vale.”_

Romano smiled slightly and held out an arm for the man to lift him up. His knees throbbed and shook slightly under his weight but the Italian ignored it, and with the man’s help, began shuffling his way over to the block in the road.

When they got closer to the trucks, Romano could make out the small Italian flags adorning the doors, and smirked. This would be far easier than he had expected, as long as the troops didn’t tell Mussolini where he had been. The man began to slow down, muttering about not wanting to go too close, so Romano withdrew his arm from around his shoulders and smiled warily at him. “ _Muchas gracias, amigo,”_ he muttered, and patted the man on the back as he turned to leave.

He managed the few meters on his own, before calling out to the troops in Italian. It didn’t take long until they were gifting him a truck, saying _“Ringrazio, Signor Italia, e buona fortuna,”_ and waving him off.

Romano nodded in thanks and put his foot down, the small truck bouncing as it raced down the worn road. Romano paid it no heed, eyes firmly fixed upon the town that was just coming into view, and he could see the smoke billowing up from the buildings. His heart leapt into his throat at the sight of flames licking up the side of the buildings closest to him; he was near enough to smell the smoke and ashes now, and the stench made him gag.

Romano screeched to a halt, meters away from the first house. It couldn’t be called a house anymore, for half of it had caved in upon itself, leaving a mess of rubble straying across the street and into a hole in the ground from the bomb that must have caused the damage.

Biting back the familiar feeling of nausea, Romano stepped around it and reached up to cover his mouth. He could barely hear the planes anymore - he prayed that they were leaving and this was over – and slowly made his way into the town.

The town itself had folded in upon itself; he couldn’t see a building that was whole – but then, the ash and dust was making it hard to see anything that wasn’t right next to him – each was reduced to a crumpled heap, bricks and glass and belongings scattered out for the world to see.

What unnerved him the most was the _silence_ that had settled on the town.

His muscles complained as the Italian forced himself to move faster, looking desperately around for someone – hell, _anyone_ would do – he just needed to know that someone had survived, that he hadn’t been too late to help at least one person.

The next pile of rubble was stained red. Romano closed his eyes and bit back the tears forming in them, before turning away. He couldn’t face them. After hundreds of years of bloodshed and fighting almost everyone in Europe and beyond, the smell of blood had become sickening to the Italian. Spain had often come home from a battle, when Italy had been split between the former and Austria, and the Spaniard had always smiled despite being covered in red, and usually bleeding himself.

“The taste of blood is sweet,” He would hum to Romano, as the Italian would yell about his safety and ‘what if you didn’t come home?’- but Spain had only laughed, assuring his henchman that he was fine and had defeated the ‘enemy’ (usually England, occasionally Portugal or France) for the moment. Romano wasn’t stupid, however – he had seen the scars lacing the Spaniards chest, had felt a shot of anguish when Spain had been killed – Spain _wasn’t_ invincible, no matter what he told Romano.

The thought haunted him as he picked his way through the rubble. What if he found Spain in pieces? Of course, nations never remained dead – Spain had died twice in the past and the only thing that had happened was the complete collapse of his economy, government, and (depending on the year) monarchy.

But it would take months for the Spaniard to recover – months that none of them had. There would be no one to nurse Spain back to health if Europe broke into war, and if Spain was dragged into it... Romano didn’t want to think of the damage that would be done to his mentor’s mind.

He gradually became aware that he wasn’t the only one on the ruined streets. People were emerging from the ruins, clutching possessions and crying, desperately searching in the rubble for loved ones. The few children that Romano spotted were bloodstained and alone. It took all the strength that the nation had to continue walking, hot tears spilling down his cheeks as the cries pierced him like shards of glass – but he couldn’t stop, he needed to find Spain, needed to make sure he was _alive_ before coming back to help his people.

The debris became thicker, and Romano guessed he was entering the centre of the town. More people began to fill the streets, each with tear streaked faces. Romano couldn’t find it in himself to look them in the eye as he scanned their faces, checking they weren’t Spain, and silently vowed to help each one of them as soon as he had his Spaniard safe and sound. Each time he passed someone that vaguely resembled Spain he panicked, double checking their features and

Ahead of him the road was cut off with a collapsed building, and the Italian was about to turn around, to find another way around it, when he spotted an old man helping a young girl to her feet, both of them seemingly unaware of the fact that the pile of bricks and tiles behind them was smoking and trembling dangerously.

Romano leapt forward, all thoughts of Spain momentarily vanishing from his mind – for the only thing that could make things move that way was a build up of gas, like he had seen all those years ago in the trenches of Isonzo and Asiago and the Somme and Ypres and every other goddamned battle he had volunteered to fight in.

Those poor people wouldn’t stand a chance.

They looked up as he yelled, and the man looked startled, urging the girl to run forwards before looking back at the rubble. A look of realisation flickered over his face and he began to run too, shouting for Romano to take the girl and _go_.

Romano grabbed her arm as she got near him, throwing her over his shoulder and ignoring the pain that shot through it as he began to run. As long as he could help one person, he wasn’t _entirely_ useless.

He had just reached the end of the street when the building exploded. Several people screamed, their voices suddenly cut off when the debris came raining down, and Romano couldn’t find the energy to wipe the tears from his face.

He set the girl down; she whimpered and buried her face in his trouser leg. A billow of dust and smoke blew down the street, getting into Romano’s eyes and nose and mouth. He chocked, blinking desperately to stop his eyes from stinging, then spat onto the pavement to rid his mouth of the dirt.

When he straightened up, he gently rested a hand on the girls head, trying to find his voice to reassure her best he could. He was cut off by a small cry, and the old man ran forward. The girl released Romano’s leg and wrapped her arms around his middle as he bent down, muttering in rapid Spanish.

He eventually released her and stood up straight, blankly staring at Romano.

That was when the Italian realised that it wasn’t an old man at all.

Grey dust had settled onto chocolate brown hair, and there was a layer of dirt and blood covering half of the man’s face, but Romano knew those eyes, he wouldn’t forget them in a thousand years.

Tears welled up in his own eyes for the hundredth time that day, and the other mans had widened in shock, his mouth silently forming Romano’s name.

It was Spain.

**Author's Note:**

> original fic can be found here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9888540/1/Let-it-Burn so if you recognise it then don't hound me for stealing it pls lmao
> 
> Again, this was written a long time ago and I haven't touched it when i copied it over, so any grammar/spelling issues are 14 yo me's fault lol sorry


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